


Ask Me About My Wiener

by blindgumby (walkydeads)



Series: Thirty Minutes or Less: The Delivery Boy Chronicles of Glenn Rhee [1]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Non-Apocalypse, Pizza Delivery Boy Glenn Rhee, Redneck Blue Collar Worker Daryl Dixon, Slacker Druggie Merle Dixon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkydeads/pseuds/blindgumby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merle keeps ordering pizza with really bizarre and embarrassing requests added to the online form. He seems to always know when Glenn’s working, and he always has his (hot) younger brother, Daryl, answer the door. Shenanigans (and possibly eventually a little buttplay) ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask Me About My Wiener

Glenn groaned upon receiving the order with special instructions attached to the receipt. This wasn’t the first time he’d been to the Dixon house, nor was it the first time he’d been asked to do something crazy. In fact, pretty much every time they placed an order, something strange was attached, usually along the lines of ‘BRING US BEER’ or ‘DRAW WHAT YOU THINK A FART WOULD LOOK LIKE ON THE BOX’. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Merle, the asshole that always placed the orders, wouldn’t tip unless he felt Glenn had performed his duties fully.

Sometimes the younger one would answer the door, though. Glenn was kind of hoping for that.

The younger one had never given his name or said much more than thank you. But he always tipped rather generously. He’d look at Glenn like he was crazy sometimes, especially the time Glenn had been asked to buy an inflatable pool from Wal-Mart and bring it by, but he’d just ask for the receipt and cover whatever crazy bullshit Merle had asked for and then some while muttering about his ‘stupid fuckin’ druggie ass brother’. Glenn had been tempted to sympathize with him a couple times, but he also got the vibe that if anyone but the brother had anything bad to say about Merle, he’d knock their teeth out.

And Glenn was rather fond of his teeth.

He knew as he got in his car with the order that the unnamed brother would probably be the one to open the door. That tended to be the way of things when Merle would request something particularly embarrassing for Glenn to do. At least he could expect a tip for his efforts this time, which was good. He just hoped he didn’t blush or stutter too much when - he stared down at the order form again - asking the guy… about his wiener.

Fuck.

It’d be a lie to say he wasn’t attracted to the presumably younger Dixon brother. Generally speaking, he kept his head down and didn’t really openly disclose to anyone that he was interested in men, but there was something about the guy. Glenn couldn’t pinpoint it. Was it the color of his eyes? How shy he seemed? His polite voice when he would say ‘thank you’ or ‘keep the change’? He didn’t know for sure, but it was probably a bit of everything. He knew sometimes there were long days at work and when he finally laid down and closed his eyes at night, he’d think of the guy, sometimes touch himself to the thought of him, and the idea that he’d be broke one of these days and would need another way to pay. But not today, though. He had a car payment coming up.

The drive to the Dixon residence was a short one; it was an ancient, crumbling single-story mill house with a cement porch that had been spraypainted black and a huge confederate flag acting as a privacy curtain. The first time Glenn had pulled up he had legitimately feared for his life, but he’d since learned in the six months the Dixons had been calling his Dominos for pizza that they were harmless. Merle could be an outright jackass, but he was harmless.

He was a little surprised to see an Oscar Meyer truck in the driveway, fashioned in the shape of a hot dog. So that’s where the whole wiener thing had come from… Suppressing the urge to laugh, he got out of his car and ambled up the dilapidated walkway. His feet stuck a bit to the porch as they always did; the younger brother had disclosed once that Merle used the wrong kind of paint, but Glenn didn’t really care as long as he wasn’t tracking black residue everywhere.

After only the barest hesitation, Glenn rang the doorbell. Merle’d rigged it to play some semblance of the confederate anthem, ‘Wish I was in Dixie Land’, though it sounded closer to ‘la cucaracha’ in Glenn’s opinion. There was some commotion inside, Merle bellowing at his brother to ‘get the damn door’ and the brother calling Merle a lazy bastard from somewhere far off in the house. Their arguments didn’t alarm Glenn anymore. It’s just how they were.

The door opened a few seconds later, the younger brother in just - unbuttoned - jeans, his chest wet and his hair still dripping. “Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath before glaring in Merle’s direction and yelling, “Thought I told you I was cookin’ tonight?”

“C’mon little brother, we both know you can’t cook for shit,” came the reply, thick with laughter.

“Sorry,” the guy said, “Hang on a second, I’ll get my wallet. How much is it?”

Glenn checked the receipt just to be sure, “Um… it’s forty-four dollars and twenty-seven cents.”

He flinched as Daryl turned on his brother and yelled at him as he made his way back through the house, “Christ! Are you throwing a damn party I didn’t know about? Seriously, Merle we can’t order pizza every damn night, ‘specially if it’s gonna cost this much every damn time.”

Merle muttered something darkly in response that Glenn couldn’t quite make out, which resulted in a loud thud and his brother telling him to keep his damn mouth shut. Glenn stifled a laugh. These brothers did care about each other, even if they went about showing it in really strange ways.

The younger Dixon returned a moment later with his wallet in hand, “Forty-somethin’, right?”

“Fourty-four twenty-seven,” Glenn nodded.

“My dumbass brother didn’t make you buy nothin’ this time?”

“No, but ah,” Glenn gave him the receipt and pointed out the special request, “He did ask me to um… do that.”

“That’s cheating!” Merle said from somewhere in the house, “Don’t tip, Daryl!”

“I’ll tip him if I want to,” Daryl grumbled, almost to himself, “He made me get the damn door so I s’pose this was directed at me.”

“Sorry,” Glenn said, feeling his face heat up despite himself. A name. He finally knew the guy’s name. He tried not to recite it in his head a million and one times and shifted the boxes in his hands, “I think he meant, you know… about the Oscar Meyer truck?”

“Oh,” Daryl said, looking every bit as uncomfortable and nervous as Glenn himself. He blushed a little, which Glenn found endlessly endearing, before saying, “Just a part time job. I make deliveries now, same as you.”

“That’s good, I mean, that you have a job and stuff,” Glenn shifted on his feet a bit, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Daryl grinned, sloppy and crooked, finally taking the pizza boxes out of Glenn’s hands. He shifted them to balance on one hand and pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet with the other, “Sorry this ain’t as big a tip as usual, I didn’t even know Merle was ordering pizza, let alone so much of it.”

Glenn took the fifty gratefully. It wasn’t exactly proportional but there had been instances where Daryl had given him an entire extra twenty in the past, so he wasn’t at all bothered. Plus, five dollars and some change was still a pretty decent tip.

“Don’t be lookin’ for the truck as a landmark now,” Daryl said conversationally, “Not usually supposed to bring it home. Plus Merle’s been giving me shit for it ever since I pulled up in the drive, so.”

“Pretty sure I can find your house regardless,” Glenn chuckled, fidgeting to tuck the insulated bag he kept the pizzas in under his arm as he handed Daryl his copy of the receipt. Their fingertips brushed and Glenn almost jerked his hand away. The touch had felt damn near electric, and he didn’t even believe in that sort of thing. “I’ve only been here about sixty times.”

“Sorry,” Daryl ducked his head sheepishly, almost making Glenn feel bad for having said anything, “I’ve told him not to call out for food so much, but he doesn’t pay me any mind.”

“Did you know,” Merle said conversationally, suddenly ducking into the picture and snagging one of the pizza boxes, “That House of Tang’s delivery boy is some Italian kid with a Vespa? Ain’t that shit ironic?”

Glenn blinked at him, “How so?”

“Well,” Merle said, slowing down his speech as if Glenn were stupid or hadn’t quite mastered the English language, “We’ve got us an Italian kid delivering us Chinese food, and a Chinese kid delivering us pizza.”

“I’m not Chinese,” Glenn said.

“He’s not Chinese,” Daryl said at the same time, nudging Merle out of the door frame.

“Same difference,” Merle grumbled somewhere out of Glenn’s line of vision, “Missin’ the game having to come get my pizza while you flirt with your goddamn chink boyfriend.”

Daryl winced, “Shit. I’m sorry. He’s… well he’s like this all the time.”

“I know,” Glenn shrugged, “It’s far from the worst I’ve heard, if you can believe it. So how did you know I was Korean?”

Daryl pointed out to his car, where a small Korean flag - a gift from Glenn’s grandmother - hangs from the rearview mirror. It had smelled like green tea at one point, back when Glenn was in high school. Now it smelled kind of like pizza grease and was bleached all to hell, but Glenn couldn’t bring himself to throw it out.

“That’s not the Chinese flag,” Daryl said simply, “I know the difference. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t mean to say you were,” Glenn shakes his head, “But um, anyway. Got more deliveries to make. We’re surprisingly busy for a Monday.”

“It’s football season,” Daryl pointed out, “It’s only gonna get worse from here. But I’ll see you around, Glenn. You the Dominos’ only delivery boy?”

Glenn chuckles, “I might as well be. I’m sure I’ll see you again before the end of the week, Daryl.”

As he walked back across the overgrown yard to his car, he desperately hoped that his voice hadn’t given away just how much he was looking forward to it. At least as he was jerking off that night, he’d have a nice visual to float around in his mind - the redneck being every bit as toned as Glenn had shamefully dreamt he’d be - and, more importantly, a name.


End file.
